


attrition

by youcouldmakealife



Series: it's a setup [26]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, YCMAL 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “This is a stupid city,” Joey tells Scratch.“Legit,” Scratch agrees.“We’re going to beat this stupid team in this stupid city in front of their stupid fans,” Joey says.“Damn straight,” Scratch says.
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Series: it's a setup [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669567
Comments: 28
Kudos: 325





	attrition

The Eastern Conference Finals go to seven games, so they get some rest. Sadly it’s not even close to enough rest for them to get Limbo or Reggie back, but at least everyone else can get some healing in, because you don’t get through three rounds of playoffs without getting a bit battered, no matter how short you make those series. At a certain point, if it becomes clear their team’s going to lose the series, players start going ‘fuck it, if they’re going to take us out of the playoffs I’m going to take a few of their guys with me’. And mission fucking success with Limbo. The Scouts sadly cannot blame anyone but themselves for Reggie.

Joey has a pit in his stomach going in to Game One. On paper the odds are in their favor, the Scouts the pure opposite of an underdog — overdog? — and that’s even with their backup in, their best left D out. They’ve got the President’s Trophy. They’ve got one of the top ten scorers in the league, and three of the top twenty-five. They’ve got the most recent Norris Trophy winner, and Shithead’s the top scorer in the playoffs despite the fact they’ve played a hell of a lot less games than some teams because they’ve been so dominant the whole time. The Sens got lucky and rode a hot goalie from eighth in the east to Eastern Conference Champions, but they had a flukey as hell run and it’s most likely going to end here. Vegas bookies have the odds on the Scouts, and by a lot. 

Joey has a pit in his stomach. He hopes it’s just the typical nerves, second guessing everything, the human instinct to think that if the odds are stacked against you then you’ll prevail, and vice versa. Statistically, the favorite to win does win most of the time.

They didn’t win last year. They were the favorite then too. Maybe it’s just Joey wanting things to be different this time, worried they won’t be.

Joey scans the room, tries to gauge the mood. Shithead’s jittery, but he always is before games, like there’s something under his skin he needs to get out. Playoff Willy’s face could be a mask it’s so still. Trigger is locked in, jersey tucked over his nose, eyes shut, probably visualizing everything that could come his way. Scratch is — Scratch is catching Joey’s eye and making a face at him.

Joey makes a face back, feeling a bit better.

The pit gets smaller once the Canadian anthem’s starting, and it’s gone by the time they’re halfway through the Star Spangled Banner, which has become almost meditative for him, a switch flicking in him from the first notes, ‘time for the game’, no room for anything else in his head.

“Okay boys,” Coach says. It’s under his breath, the only reason Joey hears it because he’s standing right behind him. He sounds like he’s got a pit in his stomach himself. Joey will do his best to make it disappear. 

Okay boys.

*

They head into Ottawa with a tremendously satisfying two game lead. No one’s getting cocky — well, Shithead’s cocky, but that’s just Shithead being Shithead — but they’re all feeling pretty damn good about themselves. They’ll be stuck in a hotel in the middle of absolute nowhere in the Ottawa burbs, which is good, means the kids are less likely to go out and mingle among people who probably hate their guts right now, and with luck they’ll be heading home with a big shiny trophy being handed around. Does Joey want to win in front of their fans? Fuck yeah. Would Joey prefer winning in a decisive sweep? Also fuck yeah.

He’s got his parents in his guest room and his sister stole his bed until they potentially fly out for Game Four — he’s kicking them all out to a hotel on his dime when he gets back — and he had an incredibly awkward encounter with the Angelopouloses because he kind of felt like ‘your son’s in love with me and I am still unsure what to do with this information’ was written all over his face, and his left ankle hurts if he puts too much weight on it, which is probably bad, but he’s feeling fucking amazing. Flying high on the trip to Canada. He’s definitely not the only one. Some of the guys start a mocking round of ‘O Canada’ until Coach tells them to quit it — Joey swears Shithead was part of that recital despite _being Canadian_ , what even is that guy? — and everyone’s hopping off the plane with a spring in their step.

Well. Joey does not hop. Joey steps down with caution. Stupid ankle. But he steps down as cheerfully as he does carefully.

They lose Willy in Game Three. Joey can tell from the bench as Willy’s being helped up and Lars is walking over as fast as he can manage on the ice while yelling at the guys helping him up to ‘stop fucking doing that’ that it’s bad. But maybe he’s just winded. Winded can look awful — it feels fucking awful — but once you get your air back you’re fine.

Joey catches Lars’ face as he comes out ten minutes later, doesn’t even need a second glance before he turns away. He steels himself for more minutes, line shuffling, a hole in the roster that no one can really fill. 

They lose Game Three by a goal, but they also lose it by a hell of a lot more than that. It isn’t just that Willy’s super talented and rabidly fanatical about playoff success to a point where they obey him out of fear: he’s the heart and soul of the team. It feels like someone just fucking _died_ in the room after, when they get told Willy wanted to stick around but he had to go to the hospital for x-rays. X-rays are bad. X-rays means Joey was right.

Willy’s in a cast and a sling when Joey gets down to breakfast the next morning. His eyes are bruised dark, like he didn’t sleep at all, everyone talking to him in a low murmur like they’re at a funeral. Joey kind of feels like they’re at a funeral. 

“You gotta eat, Money,” Scratch says.

“I’m eating,” Joey mumbles and continues to poke at his egg whites.

“Don’t make me sic an injured Playoff Willy on you,” Scratch says. “He’d probably force those eggs right down your throat.”

Joey takes a bite, because it is not an empty threat. Playoff Willy would do it one-handed if he had to. And it looks like he has to.

“This fucking sucks,” Joey says, and takes another bite of egg whites before reaching for the hot sauce so they can taste more painful.

Scratch watches Joey liberally dump hot sauce on his eggs. “You don’t even like spicy shit,” he says.

“I want them to taste like pain,” Joey tells him.

Scratch snorts. “I’m gonna get you some bread,” he says.

“Don’t want bread,” Joey says.

“You’re going to want it in a minute,” Scratch says.

Joey gratefully accepts the bread Scratch returns with. Eating pain was a bad idea. He’d like to apologize to his tongue.

*

The Scouts are a mix of antsy and anxious walking into the Canadian Tire Centre for Game Four. Well, Joey can really only speak for himself, but he is also a man who has eyes in his head, and there’s a lot of anxiety on a lot of faces. You would never know they aren’t on the ropes from the expression on every face, and you certainly wouldn’t guess that they’re leading in the series.

Playoff Willy seems to take umbrage with those expressions when Coach gives him the floor to yell at them. At least that’s what Joey assumes he’s going to do.

“We’re still up one in the series, quit looking like I died and took our playoff chances with us,” Playoff Willy says. “It’s a team effort.”

“Sorry,” Jonesy says. “It’s just that you’re important to the team and it sucks to lose you.”

“Quit sucking up,” Playoff Willy says.

“Yessir,” Jonesy says.

“It’s not exactly how I want to win the Cup for the first time,” Playoff Willy says. 

Former Playoff Willy? 

No. He’s still Playoff Willy. Joey can see it in his eyes, even before he says, “You better fucking win this, assholes, or I will haunt you to the grave.”

“Go team!” Shithead barks, and the look Playoff Willy gives him is so withering the entire room shrinks from it. 

It’s close, and way tighter than Joey would like it to be, but they win it. Skin of their teeth, Joey spending the last minute desperately trying to help Jonesy and Cottage shield Trigger to defend a one goal lead the Senators are just as desperately trying to erase, but they do it. The mood in the room after is more one of relief than celebration. One more game to win. An almost insurmountable three game hole that the Sens are in. They’re not out of the woods, but they’re so fucking close Joey can see the road, and the road involves a big ass parade in front of cheering fans.

*

They get home and they walk into a shitshow. 

Apparently the Senators really, really want to bring the Scouts back to Ottawa. They want it enough to score four goals in the space of fifteen minutes against Trigger, who’s been solid if not lights out all series, and Joey is too close to the tunnel for comfort when Trigger goes down it, but not before breaking his stick in half and throwing it down the hall in front of him. Joey doesn’t meet his eye when he comes back a few minutes later with a ball-cap and a stony expression, because he knows Trigger wouldn’t want him to, just tries to focus on evening up the game.

That’s a losing proposition. The Senators net three more off Klingon, who was visibly rattled from the first shot he faced — and only narrowly saved. Joey honestly wishes they’d kept Trigger in, thinks they would have had a better chance to catch up, but who knows. All Joey knows is that they lost.

“Still got the series lead,” Coach tells them after, but it’s muted. Everything’s muted. He doesn’t even bother to yell at them. It’s like a parent telling you they’re not mad, just disappointed. It feels like shit.

Joey feels like shit in the shower, and then Joey feels like shit getting dressed, and Joey, feeling like shit, attempts to smile at Scratch when he walks over to his stall but probably fails.

Scratch squeezes Joey’s shoulder. “Go ahead without me? I’m gonna take Trigger home.”

Joey mutely nods. Trigger probably needs the moral support right now. Would Joey also like the support and Scratch presence? Yes, but Trigger had an awful fucking night and is going to take the lion’s share of the blame with the media, so he’s absolutely earned Scratch dibs. Sucks to deal with it alone, but everything sucks about today, so why should that be any different?

Joey texts Casey to see if she’s up for hanging out for a bit, tries to give Trigger an encouraging smile when Scratch is herding him out, not sure if it does any good, if Trigger even sees it. Scratch does, gives Joey a small smile back, and Casey’s down to listen to Joey vent, so Joey guesses there’s some silver lining here. Not much, but some.

*

They go back to Ottawa. There’s certainly no mocking rendition of the Canadian anthem this time, and Joey glares up at their stupid middle of nowhere hotel with loathing when they arrive.

“This is a stupid city,” Joey tells Scratch.

“Legit,” Scratch agrees.

“We’re going to beat this stupid team in this stupid city in front of their stupid fans,” Joey says.

“Damn straight,” Scratch says.

“You want to do absolutely nothing but flip through channels and make fun of TV shows tonight?” Joey asks. It was what they’d do when they were too lazy to pick a series to watch back when they were rooming together, spending the occasional night bouncing from channel to channel, making up storylines and mocking bad acting and eventually settling on some old sitcom or another.

“Sounds good,” Scratch says. “Bring popcorn.”

Popcorn that he will inevitable throw at the TV at the worst acting, and then Joey will have to pick it up.

“We’ll see,” Joey says.

“Smart Food,” Scratch says.

“That’ll leave powder all over the TV,” Joey says.

“I’m not going to throw it at the TV,” Scratch protests.

Joey, sadly, cannot independently raise an eyebrow unlike some people more talented in the eyebrow department, but he _can_ give very skeptical looks.

“I’ve grown as a person, Money,” Scratch says.

“Hmm,” Joey says. “Not buying it.”

He buys Scratch Smart Food anyway. He’ll just have to trust him. He throws in a Coffee Crisp too, since Scratch loves them and they’re a Canadian exclusive. 

“Didn’t expect you yet,” Scratch says when Joey arrives with his ill-gotten gains. He’s in nothing but his underwear, clearly freshly post-shower, and Joey would probably be more distracted by that if his gaze wasn’t drawn to the horror that’s his right bicep and shoulder, which is a mess of bruising. It looks like one gigantic horrible bruise, but he can see where the edges don’t quite match up. Game after game of battling it out, crunching into the boards. He’s blue black with it.

“ _Fuck_ , Scratch,” Joey says.

“They look worse than they feel,” Scratch says, stepping aside so Joey can come in.

“I fucking hope so,” Joey says. “How do they feel, then?”

“They fucking hurt,” Scratch says. “But I’m good to play.”

Joey reaches out a finger, stops short of poking his shoulder when Scratch visibly winces before Joey gets within an inch. He has a feeling they do not, in fact, look worse than they feel. 

“Fuck Carruthers,” Joey says. It’s just a guess, but probably a good one considering him and Scratch have been getting into it shift after shift. Joey thinks the only reason Scratch hasn’t decked him is because he got a stern talking to about riding the line.

“Fuck Carruthers,” Scratch says. “Bowman and Riley too. Fucking — nice guy. He’s a nice guy. I hate his guts.”

“You’re turning on your Toronto Brotherhood now,” Joey says. “That’s big.”

“Fuck Carruthers, he’s barely even GTA,” Scratch says. 

“Riley’s from your own neighborhood,” Joey says.

“Yup,” Scratch says. “Hate his fucking guts.”

“If I get you ice will you put it on your shoulder?” Joey asks.

“Sure,” Scratch says, so Joey grabs the ice bucket and heads down to the ice machine.

Scratch is much more excited about the junk food than the ice, but he obediently multi-tasks munching on his Coffee Crisp and icing his shoulder, and he doesn’t throw a single kernel of popcorn at the TV, even when they accidentally end up on Fox News, so maybe he _has_ grown as a person. 

*

They leave Ottawa without the Cup. 

Joey decides the sole consolation of the tied series is that they can win it at home, in front of their fans, in a building that loves their team, full of family and friends and people that love them. Not that the family and friends weren’t in the building tonight. Plenty of family and friends flying back to Kansas City too, along with some very disappointed fans.

Joey kind of wants to cry.

Joey cannot cry in the middle of the plane, he’d probably go from Money to like, Blubbery.

Joey reaches his hand out across the arm rest.

Scratch glances down at it, then inquisitively at Joey.

“Can you just like —” Joey says. “Hold my hand for a second. In a bro way.”

“Holding hands is not bros,” Scratch says, but he reaches his hand out and Joey squeezes it hard.

“Ow,” Scratch says. “Okay, you’ve found a bro way of hand holding. Please don’t put me on IR. We can’t afford another dude on IR.”

“I am manifesting a win,” Joey says.

“By squeezing my hand really hard?” Scratch says.

“Yes,” Joey says. “Shut your eyes.”

Scratch sighs, but does, and Joey shuts his eyes too.

“We are going to fucking win the Cup,” Joey says. “Right?”

Scratch squeezes his hand back in silent answer, follows up with a determined, “Right.”

Joey loosens his stranglehold of Scratch’s hand, heart going too fast when Scratch laces their fingers for a brief moment, squeezes once before he pulls his hand away.

“Go team,” Joey says, a weak attempt at a joke that comes out flat, but Scratch huffs a laugh anyway.


End file.
